


4419

by whiskerprince



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Gen, and many more wins, emotional follow-up to m countdown stage, i wish them all the best, stray kids first win, warning for assumptions of idols' way of thinking/insecurities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2020-01-04 22:57:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18353447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskerprince/pseuds/whiskerprince
Summary: On April 4th, 2019, Stray Kids got their first music show win.





	4419

 

_But feelings have terrible manners_ — _they are like children, or drunks. They are mad. They gorge as the starved will gorge, until they are sick, until their stomachs split. As you or I would, if we were exiled for thirty years. They do not leave when you want them to. They leave when they are finished._  
  
—Abandon Me, Melissa Febos

 

 

"I'm glad you were there."

Daehwi's eyes soften. "Of course," he says, voice just a brush of feathers. "Oh, Jinnie. I'm glad I was there, too."

Hyunjin's cheeks are raw and swollen but that doesn't deter Daehwi from pressing a kiss on the rise of his cheekbone, just below his still-damp eyes. The feeling of Daehwi's lip liner on his skin lingers and Hyunjin is grateful for the balm on his nerves. He still feels like an open wound. The uncertainty of an exposed organ during surgery; the sting of a bad tooth prodded by a deliberate tongue. Every part of Hyunjin feels like an emergency.

In the mirror, his face is slick with a mix of water from the tap, sweat, and tears. A droplet of water beads at the edge of his chin and drops onto into the space between his palms, pressed flat against the vanity and supporting his weight. He tastes his top lip. It's still a bit saline. His makeup is running and any hairs that haven't been superglued into place with gel are wet and flat against his skull. Hyunjin meets Daehwi's eyes in the mirror. Dressed neatly, trimly; cute in his wardrobe professionalism. The corners of Daehwi's mouth turn up.

"It's really something, isn't it?" he whispers.

Hyunjin nods; can't trust himself to speak around the lump in his throat. There's a ghost in Daehwi's eyes. He remembers what Hyunjin is feeling. It's not something to be afraid of, though. Daehwi's eyes are warmed by nostalgia, the slow-moving creep of morning sunlight across a bare arm. Hyunjin doesn't feel it yet—it's stimulant and withdrawal all at once in his head—but he can imagine standing in Daehwi's place, suit clinging to his sides and itching him, and someone, maybe Younghoon or Jaehyun in his place, makeup ruined and nose running but so, so satisfied.

Hyunjin knows the cries of legs and arms pushed until they can no longer move; he knows the frantic, throat-clawing need to gasp for breath after a performance. He knows how to school the pain in his body into a pleasant expression and calm exterior. He knows how to deny his body the animal urge to sprawl across the floor on hands and knees, lips parted in an exhausted snarl, chest heaving. He knows how to count the seconds until they are off air, off the stage, chanting the numbers like a mantra in his head and clinging to the numbness of shock because the other option is—

_Jisung's legs giving out beneath him and falling into a crouch, the heel of his hands dug into his eyes; the press of hyungs like moving fortresses steadying the younger members; the bone-deep tremor running through Jisung's body as he curled into Hyunjin; Changbin's back drawn tighter than piano strings and head ducked low; Seungmin's head tilted back to keep the tears from falling_ —

Daehwi catches Hyunjin when he turns, a childlike wail on his lips. Hyunjin smothers the cry into Daehwi's neck, mouth open against his lapels, no longer able to force down the ugly sobs that rise in his chest. They bubble over and spill across his face and Daehwi's nice suit and Hyunjin is an emergency. He is viscera and desperation in the shakily held together body of a boy. And he knows— _he knows_ —performing is going to war, but no one told him the deepest wound is the one that winning leaves. And when it heals he will show it off alongside the others—this one, debut; this one, from an award show—but for now he is being stitched together with no anesthetic and for all that he dances, Hyunjin is a baby when it comes to painful things.

Daehwi's fingers are in his hair, his other arm wound round Hyunjin's waist. He pets Hyunjin, and the irony is not lost on Hyunjin. But Daehwi strokes him slower, patiently, without the eyes of the world on them. It's only the drip of the leaky bathroom faucet between Hyunjin's wails and Daehwi's soothing voice, saying: _It's okay. You're okay. You've done well._

_Hyunjin, you've done well._

 

(White Flower )(White Flower )(White Flower )(White Flower )(White Flower )(White Flower )(White Flower )(White Flower )(White Flower )

 

Jeongin calls his mom on the ride home. He _should_ wait until they get to the dorms and he can sneak into the hallway or onto his bunk for a longer, more private celebratory conversation, but—

But they _won_.

His mom is there with his dad and they know. They were watching. His mom sounds a little watery, as if she's just recently put herself together. She congratulates him, and then, because he's on speaker, she congratulates the rest of his members, who waste no time in shouting at the top of their lungs their own thanks in a garbled mess of sound that continues even after the obligatory greeting to Jeongin's mother:

_Oh my god, I wonder if my dad is back from his business trip_ — _Ugh my eyeshadow is getting in my eyes_ — _Hope my mom remembered to tape it, I forgot to remind her_ — _Oh shit, Juyeon-hyung just texted me_ — _What'd he say, lemme see_ — _Lemme read it first, damn_ — _I really won't sleep tonight_ — _What time does M-Net release the footage?_ — _You guys, Innie-I mean Jeonginnie-is trying to talk to his mom!_ — _Shhh!_ — _You 'shhh'!_ — _You are so much louder than me!_ — _Ladies, ladies, you're both annoying_ — _Do you think managers will let us eat junk tonight?_

And then the car erupts into an explosion of caterwauling and cheering at the suggestion of greasy food, Jeongin's phone call forgotten. Jeongin sheepishly hangs up on his parents and texts them an apology for his hyungs' volume. He thinks it's excusable, though; it's not every day you win your first music show. The press of voices and bodies around him is a victory song. It was never a promise that he would love every member, that they would all be friends. He knew that coming into JYPE. To be here, locked in between Felix and Seungmin who are swatting at each other behind his back, Felix's leg over Jeongin's and Seungmin's free arm looped through his, is a blessing of the highest caliber. To be crushed between the compassion of his hyungs' bodies on stage is a blessing. To argue over what flavor of theoretical fast food they'll eat tonight is a blessing.

Jeongin puts in his vote for spicy chicken as his phone buzzes against his leg. He reads the text and a soft smile spreads across his face.

_They're really wonderful friends, aren't they?_

 

(White Flower )(White Flower )(White Flower )(White Flower )(White Flower )(White Flower )(White Flower )(White Flower )(White Flower )

 

They hold it together on M Countdown. They're the older members—they can't lose it on television and leave it to the kids. Seungmin, Hyunjin, and Jisung are tender-hearted and prone to bursting into tears. Jeongin and Felix, too uncertain of themselves. If the hyungs don’t keep it together, who will accept the award? Make acknowledgments? Stray Kids can't simply fall to the floor, bawling.

Minho does it well, taking in the confetti and congratulations with a cool smile and the flash of teeth. A dab to Seungmin's eyes; an arm around Jeongin's shoulders. Woojin, too—standing as a fixed point and unyielding pillar with a serene look of satisfaction. Textbook, like they'd done this a million times. Changbin knows they haven't. He knows their insides are churning. But they fake it so well.

He hears the waver in Chris's voice and fixes his eyes on the floor.

What is it they were taught about showing their best sides on television? Face front, head up, control your expression, find the cameras. He wishes he could. The stage is scuffed from all the performances this night. Scraps of confetti flutter to the ground in front of him. On Changbin's right, Seungmin is sniffling and swaying in place, bouncing between him and Minho. On his left—

His family and friends are watching. STAY are watching. Sunbaenims, trainees, JYP, people who don't even know his name...they all might see this. See him. He needs to get it together. He needs to put on the best face he can. For everyone watching, for his members, for Jisung falling apart in Hyunjin's arms, for Chris shouldering the emotional weight of eight years and nine boys. He shoves everything back into Pandora's Box. He looks up.

They offer their thanks on stage and Changbin holds it together. The younger members break down in the changing rooms and he holds it together. They film for SKZ Talker on the way home and he holds it together. They hold a celebratory VLive and he holds it together. He retreats to the darkness of his shared room with Chris while the maknaes wheedle their manager for victory chicken and pizza or at the very least, ice cream. Changbin pulls on his sleepwear in the dark. In his chest, the churning emotions decompress and stretch into the darkness and the sound of his members' voices muffled through the walls.

The door to their room opens, letting a strip of light dart in like an unwelcome cat. Chris is backlit. He stiffens, hand still around the knob. "Sorry," he says, voice thick. "Thought you'd be in the kitchen, or—" he swipes at his eye fast, like if he moves quick enough Changbin won't notice, "—I don't know, somewhere—"

Changbin's chest gives out. His hand flies to his mouth, catching the sob before it can escape fully, and then Chris is stepping into the room, shutting the door, hurrying to Changbin's side. Chris touches his arm and Changbin crumbles, sitting down on his bed, still smothering himself. Chris rubs his palms up and down Changbin's arms and squeezes his shoulders.

"You too?" Chris says wetly, trying to joke. Changbin socks him none too gently in the side.

Chris climbs into the bed with him, wordlessly pulling Changbin towards him. They don't do this—not really; not anymore—but these are extraordinary circumstances. Changbin has grown but he still fits easily into Chris's lap. Chris has grown, too. Changbin doesn't cry aside from that one outburst. He trembles fitfully in Chris's embrace and Chris holds Changbin tightly, securely to his chest. Changbin loops his arms around Chris's neck, one hand clutching at the back of Chris's skull. Holding him. Supporting him. Even if two strong posts are split and tumbling over, if they fall against each other, they can stay standing that much longer, can't they?

This is their old agreement. When Chris got so homesick around his siblings' birthdays that his hands seized in his shirt and clutched at his chest; when Changbin couldn't grasp a part of the performance and his vocal lessons went south: there was nothing to say, so they held each other. What could they have said? What could they say now? Very few people were equipped with the facilities to express their emotions clearly and accurately through words, and almost none of them were pop idols scarcely into their twenties. Fingers drawn through hair or the pressure of a palm against shoulders spoke the language of emotions better than Chris or Changbin ever would with words.

When Changbin draws back, he is unsurprised to feel wetness at his temple. He presses his fingers lightly to Chris's cheeks, dabbing at the tear tracts all the way up his face. Changbin presses his thumb to the corner of Chris's eyes, feeling the swell of a teardrop and the slow blink that sets it free. Chris's eyelashes are dewy with tears. Changbin swipes across his lower eyelids and the thin, filmy skin of his eyebags. Chris is completely silent but the tears continue to swell. Changbin's vision clouds with tears of his own but he says nothing.

Their members exercise an uncanny level of group telepathy and don't so much as knock on the door of their room, even when the delivery arrives. Changbin is unworried; there will be a fair double portion tucked into the corner of the fridge when he wakes up. Changbin knows from the taste of Chris's tears on his fingertips that they will not leave this room until the dregs of dawn stir them into waking.

He tips Chris back onto the mattress. Chris catches one of Changbin's thighs between his own and lets Changbin throw the other skinny leg over Chris's. They lie in the bed backwards, the hum of the air conditioner meaning Changbin will wake up in an hour with goosebumps all over his skin, but for now the heat from Chris's chest and beneath his chin lull Changbin into dozing. They both stink from the performance and Changbin's makeup is still on.

It's okay. Tomorrow they will wake up winners. And the next, and the next.

 

(White Flower )(White Flower )(White Flower )(White Flower )(White Flower )(White Flower )(White Flower )(White Flower )(White Flower )

 

Seungmin is three pieces into both foods and holding a dripping slice of pizza in one hand and a green tea in the other when he declares he's done crying. That was the old him. Now, he will be in full celebration mode.

"Food makes the heart grow stronger," Seungmin philosophizes, taking a bite of the pizza and chewing it like a rabbit.

"I'll say," Woojin says, eyeing the greasy pizza with nutritional doubt. But no one begrudges Seungmin his declaration.

Seungmin is shining. It's not just the grease on his fingers and the corners of his mouth—although those might play a role—nor the post-shower rosy glow: it's a shine that emanates from his very core. He bounces in place while he eats and whines at his members when they steal his food. His smile forces the apples of his cheeks high and scrunches his eyes. He's dancing carelessly and singing a few bars of _Grow Up_ in between pieces of chicken. Seungmin radiates euphoria.

In a way, Seungmin is better off than the others. While Hyunjin has a reputation for being a crybaby, it's really Seungmin who cries first and most often. It's easy to provoke tears from Seungmin the same way it's easy to provoke a swat on the arm when he's irritated or an octopus hug when he's feeling fond. Seungmin wears his emotions on his sleeve. Easy to take at face value. Seungmin feels what he needs to feel, cries when he needs to cry, then makes peace with himself and moves on. When he says he's done crying and ready to celebrate, he means it.

Sometimes Jisung wants to ask him, _How do you do it?_ But that's a stupid question with an obvious answer. Seungmin is unreservedly and unabashedly Kim Seungmin 100% of the time. He puts on no mask and carries no dagger beneath his cloak. It gives him a rep among the group members and even outside idols and fans as innocent or naive, but when Jisung thinks about it, _really thinks about it_ , he wonders if maybe Seungmin is the only one of them who has got this whole idol gig figured out. Even Woojin and Minho, who play by their own rules more often than not, will put on a facade when they need to. But the serene aura that surrounds Seungmin cannot be manufactured. It is just how he is.

On the surface, Seungmin seems like the child who cries at the end of the race because he picked up a few bloodied scrapes along the way. He should be inconsolable. Instead, he is the child who wipes away his instinctual tears when he sees the blood beading along horizontal scratches. He examines the scrapes, processes them, and then goes to celebrate the end of the race by showing off his wounds, no bandage necessary. Points at the open redness of his leg even when his friends gasp, smiling hard.

_Awesome._

 

(White Flower )(White Flower )(White Flower )(White Flower )(White Flower )(White Flower )(White Flower )(White Flower )(White Flower )

 

Jisung steps into the shower and lets the pelting on his body distract him from his thoughts. He doesn't have as long as he'd like—they still have to do a celebratory VLive and _everyone_ wants to shower before then, so he has ten minutes at most. No time to relax. He can only bleed the wound a little.

_Why?_

Why had it struck him so hard? His carefully crafted persona, the walls of professionalism...ravaged by—what, exactly? He had cried into Hyunjin's arms. Hyunjin! His beautiful, strong friend who had stroked his head and held him until he stopped those godawful sobs, murmuring _, C'mon Sungie, c'mon...it's okay. Why are you crying? It's okay._ Even Seungmin had kept his tears to himself, while Jisung couldn't stand, could barely thank STAY.

Was it really so surprising? Their fanbase was only growing bigger. Miroh had been well-received monetarily. Was it really so strange that they should get their first win on a music show? Some dam broke in Jisung when their win was announced; something about seeing their name projected in big letters and Daehwi's bright voice and the cheers from all around and Jisung. Jisung in the eye of it, composed and controlled until the eyewall hit and then he was bowled over, hands over his face and the press of friends, like the flanks of concerned cats.

He hadn't even known there was a dam to be broken, or more accurately, he hadn't given it a name. He had a few of those in the attic of his brain, a few darkened dams collecting dust, covered with a sheet. He never cared to examine them. He stoppered the leaks without naming the structures; maybe some other time he would, but not now. He's busy. It's not that important to name a dam, is it? It's not important until it breaks.

The shower pressure patters against his skin until it feels raw and suddenly Jisung has had enough of waterworks for one day. He rubs the soap over his body fiercely, scrubbing off memories the best he can. Scrub off the feeling of digging his fingers into his crossed arms. Scrub off the feeling of curling into a ball. Scrub the tear tracts from his cheeks. He'll swallow the soap bar whole if it will erase the sound of his own voice faltering and never finding steady ground, echoing in his head. He drags soapy fingers through his hair but here he pauses. Not so much a scrub but a stroke. Hyunjin's fingers against his scalp. The curl of Changbin's arm around his neck. Minho's pat on top of his head. Jeongin's arms around his shoulders when Jisung pauses in washing to rub his neck. Woojin brushing a hand against his lower back when Jisung lowers his arms. Those memories he wants to keep.

Relief. The dam is relief.

Jisung can't help it. He's arrogant. It's a small narcissism, but it's enough to wreck him. He believes in himself and in his voice and his music, and he believes in his team and he believes in his stage presence and he believes he's handsome and he believes his personality is attractive. But there's moss growing under the heavy stone of narcissism, a kind of mutant, malign organism that sprouts beneath everyone who builds confidence on a shaky foundation. It speaks in tongues that sound like Jisung and his mother and his teachers and Chris and his father and Changbin and himself again. It speaks its truth in Jisung's heart and vibrates through his body, inescapable. Doubt tells him that he is a fraud, that he has made a mistake in becoming an idol, that he is untalented and ugly and that he does not deserve his good fortune, that everyone who loves him only pities him.

It grips him like shame, like waking suddenly from a dream and fearing he's wet the bed. He knows he doesn't deserve this specter brushing its fangs across the back of his neck; it exists only in the corner of his eye or the emptiness of their dorm. It is chased out by the touch of Chris's shoulder against his, a compliment on his producing, a snack Seungmin buys him just because it reminded Seungmin of him, a message from an old teacher saying _you've come so far_. But self-doubt is a hyena and the lion of his rational mind has to sleep sometimes. He can chase it away, roaring and snarling, but it trails him, eyes flashing in the twilight. If he lets his guard down it will rip into him and leave him collapsed on the floor of the shower, too numb even to cry.

Doubt had poisoned him: _it could be my fault, my flaw; that's why we aren't winning, I am not rapper/singer/performer/producer enough to earn this for us; it's so close why why why can't we reach it?_

And relief at seeing their name in lights had collapsed the structure inside of Jisung—down with his dam, down with his narcissism—and flooded his body with certainty. _You are good enough._

Doubt would rebuild itself. There were more mountains to climb. There were more tears to be shed. But Jisung stands in the river of knowledge that they won. They won once; they can do it again. He will be more resistant, next time he is poisoned.

Jisung closes his eyes and leans back into the spray. He washes himself of the layer of hurt. He sheds the doubt. He lets himself heal.

When he gets out of the shower and changed into comfortable clothes, Changbin pokes his nose into the Millennial Room and offers Jisung his green sweatshirt.

"I'm okay, hyung," Jisung says quietly. His skin feels new, his voice not quite his own yet. "I have my own."

"It's fresh out of the dryer," Changbin persists. "Put it in for a steam refresh."

Jisung hesitates for a moment, then reaches out and takes it. The hoodie is fabric-hot and soft. Jisung slides it over his head and the warmth chases the after-shower chill from his bones. It smells of fresh detergent and faintly of Changbin. Jisung is reminded, vividly, of standing on the stage again, this time behind a protective line of his members shielding him. He remembers Changbin’s arms outstretched, or at least the blur of them, and he remembers being folded against Changbin.

Jisung thinks he didn't understand the meaning of 'brother' until that moment.

Changbin pulled Jisung into his body because he knows him, because he trusts him, because he loves him. They have lived and worked and breathed and sweat together for long enough that their bodies know each other faster than they do. Jisung and Changbin curled together in an Ouroboros, unable to tell jaw from tail. Changbin held Jisung tighter than he ever had before, and a different dam cracked in Jisung. Trust.

Jisung feels the touch-memory of every member pulling him close in the warmth of that hoodie.

"Well? You coming?" Changbin asks. "Everyone is waiting for you."

_Yes. Always._

 

(White Flower )(White Flower )(White Flower )(White Flower )(White Flower )(White Flower )(White Flower )(White Flower )(White Flower )

 

"What's it like?"

Eric's voice is free from envy; he knows their time will come, perhaps even anticipates it with another comeback on the horizon. Felix's phone is propped up precariously on top of Minho's nighttime face mask box, behind the sink faucet. On Felix's phone screen, Eric lies down on his bunk and tugs the hood of his jacket over his head. Felix pouts his lips and casts his eyes skyward in thought, absentmindedly rubbing foam cleanser into his cheeks.

"You know...how like, STAYs—or I guess The B—will talk about doing hi-touch, how after they don't remember bits of it?"

Eric groans. "You don't remember your first win? Bro."

"No, no," Felix waves a white, foamy hand. "I didn't blackout or anything. But I think it probably felt the same as that. Just...watching your own body from a place removed."

"Out of body experience?"

"Guess so."

"Eh, I guess that's not too surprising. Happened winning Rookie of the Year, too, right?"

Felix nods slowly and seriously. "Every. Time."

Eric laughs.

"It's weird," Felix says, frowning. "I don't know."

Eric rolls on his back. "Tell me about it?"

Felix drums his clean hand against the vanity. "I don't know. I'll sound ungrateful."

"Better to tell me than the other guys then."

"That's fair," Felix relents. "I just...you know, we've both been on so many music shows. And we have fans that cheer so hard for us and wave their lightsticks. I know they care. I know they try so hard for us. But...tonight...I felt like I understood for the first time what STAYs mean when they say they love us."

Eric laughs. "That's not ungrateful! That's just getting in your feelings."

"It sounds like I didn't believe they loved us before, or that they didn't love us enough."

"No one thinks that but you, and you're just being a worrywart. It always takes a few comebacks before you start winning."

"ITZY won right off the bat," Felix blurts, then winces. "Shit. I wasn't supposed to say that."

Eric is thoughtful for a moment. "I don't know what that feels like," he admits. "I mean, you're Big Three; I'm the only active group under my label. It's a bit greedy to want it all and fast," Felix winces, "but I think anyone would understand. And I don't think the existence of that greed necessarily makes it bad. If you don't want it so bad it makes you jealous, will you ever get it? Nothing is just going to be handed to you."

Felix rubs the cleanser into his temples and pats his skin gently, reflective. "Maybe," he says. "It's not like they make me angry or anything. I just want to do better. So I can be proud to call myself sunbaenim to them—well, not call myself sunbae, but you see my point."

"Yeah." Eric rolls back over. "I know you will, though. You guys have a spark. Anyone who doesn't see it is blind."

"So do you guys," Felix says.

Eric grins. "Oh trust me, I know. It's different from yours, though. You know what that means."

"Do I?" Felix squints.

"It means I'll be seeing you at every awards show from now until our members start getting shuttled off to military duty."

Felix laughs and splashes his face with water. "Oh, yeah, you're right about that."

A garbled yell comes through the speaker. Eric lets out a dramatic sigh and sits up. "Daddy's calling. I already shirked dish duty to watch your stage. Better appease him before he puts me in a crab hold. Or gets Jacob to stare sternly at me. That's worse, I think."

"Don't wanna get caught up in all that."

"I'll see you later, man," Eric says. "And—hey. Congrats, seriously."

"Thank you," Felix says. He smiles at his phone even after it goes dark.

 

(White Flower )(White Flower )(White Flower )(White Flower )(White Flower )(White Flower )(White Flower )(White Flower )(White Flower )

 

Minho is more clever than he lets on. He knows from the moment they are dismissed from the stage that there will be no personal time given to reflect and rejoice. Not in the shower (there are nine of them after all), not in free time (tonight, free time is given back to STAY), not at dinner (as if anyone could think over the chewing and squabbling), and by the time all that ruckus was over it would be time to take off their makeup (again) and perform their nighttime ablutions. This was acceptable to those who had already cried out their feelings, but for those who had yet to properly process the win on their own, it was a nightmare.

But Minho had made a copy of the key to the roof ages ago for that exact purpose.

After Woojin turns his phone off and Jeongin seems to be breathing evenly, Minho slides out from under the covers, feet bare against the linoleum. He had gone to sleep in clothes so that he wouldn't risk waking his roommates with the shuffling of fabric. The door to their room has been left ajar, so Minho slips out with only the slightest flutter of his bed curtains. The front door chimes every time it unlocks and is therefore unavoidable, but Minho smothers it slightly with the sleeve of his jacket. He leaves the dorm without putting on shoes.

He jogs the three flights up to the roof, fits his key into the lock with a twist, and pulls back the latch so he can open the door and step onto the rooftop. The concrete is cool and rough against the soles of his feet and Minho unconsciously works his toes at the texture. He pads to the edge of the roof, climbing atop the raised ledge that encircles the deck. The night views of Seongnae-dong aren't spectacular or anything, but the aura of light rising from the buildings and the heaviness of night make Minho's blood rush. In the distance, the glittering silver towers of Gangnam. Even further, across the Hangang, Namsan tower glowing green. Minho is finally alone save for the oppressive structure of the city.

Evidently he's not as clever as he thinks he is, though, because a heavy hand claps his shoulder, holding on when he jolts in place and lets out an unrepeatable swear.

Woojin grins. "Hey, I'll remember that one."

" _Seriously_ ," Minho says with a sigh. "I could've gone over."

"Nah, I was ready. Would've pulled you back."

"Tell that to the ten years of life I just lost."

Woojin hums noncommittally and takes up residence to Minho's right, one leg pulled to his chest and the other dangling over the edge of their building. "Think we're high enough not to get noticed?"

"The street lights don't illuminate this high up. I checked it out as soon as I made the extra key." Minho glances at Woojin. "Why _did_ you follow me up here?"

"Well, _I_ don't have a key, do I?"

Minho snorts. "Ass." But he doesn't mind as much as he thought he would. Woojin falls silent next to him and becomes a warm presence on a chilly night. Minho kicks his heels against the edge of the building and counts the people walking by. Considers dropping gum on the head of a trainee he recognizes. Turns his eyes to the sky, and when he finds no stars, turns them back to Gangnam.

"We did it," Minho says.

Woojin lets out a soft exhale. "Yeah. We did." He turns to face Minho and presses his cheek to his knee. "Was it worth the wait?"

"Was what worth the wait?"

Woojin shrugs unhelpfully.

Minho rolls his eyes but he gets Woojin's meaning. Minho could have been in a professional dance group. He had stellar credentials and an impressive skillset. He had come to JYP through unusual means and could leave just as easily with only surface-level wounds to his pride. Was it worth the voice lessons and rap training, neither of which came as naturally as dance? Was it worth getting eliminated? Is that stage really worth it?

"Was it worth it to you?"

Training under SM and then holding his breath and saying _fuck it, fuck it all_ and taking the plunge. Leaving the people who knew him for an unknown land with scraps of a boy group. Woojin might have become NCT if he had stayed. Was Stray Kids a fair enough trade to him?

Woojin holds Minho's gaze. Minho looks unblinkingly back.

Woojin looks away after a moment, laughing through his nose. "I'm much too greedy to say I'm satisfied with just the one win."

"Will you wait for more?"

"No," Woojin says. "I will walk on to the next stage and demand it."

Minho turns the words over in his mind. "It may not be that easy."

"Maybe not," Woojin says. "But satisfaction is the enemy of progress. I won't wait for anything to be dropped into my lap, Minho-yah."

"I know," Minho says. "That's why we understand each other so well."

"We do?" Woojin's eyes crinkle in the corners.

Minho fails to suppress a smile. "I'll make you a key."

"No need," Woojin says. "I'm fine just following you."

Woojin's right, Minho thinks as he looks back at the city, heart full. 'Wait' isn't really the right word for it. Minho and Woojin have never waited on their dreams. They're hunters. They run them down in the day time and stalk them at night. They chase their dreams until the world yields first. 'Wait' isn't the right word. Choosing this company, debuting, and winning weren't worth the _wait_. It's something different.

Something like 'stay.'

 

_There is a book_  
_living inside your chest_  
_with dilated instructions_  
_on how to make a safe landing._  
_It was written_  
_for crash landers._  
_Thank you._  
_I am coming home to listen._  
  
—In Landscape, Buddy Wakefield

 

_____ _

 

_____ _


End file.
